this type of poem is new to me
as fresh as stale Olde English
the malt is flowing into me
and soon we'll both be finished

the cheapest of the bottom shelf
this poem is an insult
to Shakespeare and his flock of elves
it mocks their olden art

Elizabeth would have my head
hung in her court for sport
and so it is with heart of dread
I offer this retort

be weary of the ancient forms
they come with hidden ancient norms